


Twenty-Three Minutes

by cat_77



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was missing, and is now found. Sherlock will take care of the situation, by whatever means he deems necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Three Minutes

Sherlock looked about the warehouse frantically. John was here, he was certain of it. All of the clues led to this place at this time. He spun in a circle and looked again and finally found it: a heavy metal door, rusted with age, with two shiny new padlocks attached to hinges that appeared to match those from the hardware store where they had discovered the fourth piece of evidence.

It had been three days since the first note. Well, technically seventy-one hours and eight minutes, but that was neither here nor there at the moment. What mattered was that Sherlock was here and that he had already made short work of the first lock and moved on to the second.

The faintest whiff of sawdust and turpentine was the only warning he got before a fist sailed by his head to connect with the doorjamb he had just been poised beside. A spin and a strike and he had dislocated the man’s elbow. While incapacitated momentarily in pain, another strike to the throat had the man gasping for the already fetid air. It was easy enough from there to knock him unconscious and ensure he was out of the way.

Sherlock barely spared him a glance to confirm that, yes, it was Michaels as he had suspected, before he stepped over the crumpled form to retrieve the lock picks that had fallen to the floor during the attack. A twist of his wrist and the metal was tossed to the side with its owner and the door finally prised open.

His eyes took but a moment to adjust to the dim light that filtered in through a single dingy and fenced window and from the main area of the warehouse. When they did, he paused for another reason all together. John was there, as suspected, but the level of abuse and mistreatment his friend had suffered had been sorely underestimated. Though he knew it was not precisely productive, he could not avoid the whispered name that escaped his lips.

John’s wrists had been tied with cabling, the wires still loose and jagged at the ends, and then tethered to a pipe on the wall. The fresh scratches against the worn metal showed evidence of a struggle, possibly an attempt to escape, as did the dried flecks of blood about John’s wrists and fingers. The fingers themselves bore a series of shallow and healing cuts that traced the bone; deliberate and potentially debilitating had the knife carved deeper.

He traced the stains up along pale and exposed arms, noted the dirt and grime from no less than four locations mixed about the bruises, up to a shoulder that had suffered a minor dislocation but appeared sufficiently back in place. The scar tissue from John’s previous bullet wound was exposed and had been traced about with the same delicate lines as his fingers, three crisscrossing the wound itself at varying angles, framed with torn fabric.

He removed the dirty rag used as a gag and noted the tears in the chapped lips, the slight bruising along the corners of the mouth. The gag had been removed and replaced previously, possibly several times before. He hoped that it was to allow nourishment, but feared it was due to a request for answers. The various tools that had nothing to do with the original purpose of the factory that lay on the makeshift bench outside the door further solidified that belief.

“Sherlock?” A choked whisper of disbelief drew his attentions to the face before him. A black eye, split lip, and hairline fracture of the zygomatic arch greeted him, as did a single, non-swollen eye that was hazy from what was likely a pharmaceutical substance instead. He could determine which exactly with more light and less debris covering the victim.

He stopped himself.

Not victim. John. _John_. It was John before him, abused and filthy and looking up at him with unrestrained relief at being found. John that was tethered to a wall, sat upon a pallet of old dust-dry clay stored in torn cloth parcels, beaten and bruised and still gloriously alive. John who asked in a tired croak of a voice, “Take me home?”

Sherlock sized up the cables and knew he both would be unable to untie them in their current state as well as unable to cut through the hard plastic and metal without aid of something sharper than anything he had with him. “One moment,” he promised, and darted out the door to grab the box cutter he had seen on the shelf beside Michaels’ unconscious body.

“Get my clothes too?” John appealed.

It was then that Sherlock finally took notice of the fact John had been stripped down to his vest and trousers, the button on the fly only partially in place and the band from a pair of rumpled boxers peeking out along the waistline, tears and grime lining the remaining fabric.

A glance and he found the button-down and jumper behind an upturned box. He located the shoes, but no stockings, though he doubted John would care at this point. He dropped the shoes at the side of the would-be mattress and draped the clothing over his arm while he made quick use of the blade against the wires. He was not surprised to find deep indents of torn skin about John’s wrists, nor was he surprised by the way the other man flinched at the proximity of the blade.

He handed over the clothing without ceremony and advised, “We have twenty-three minutes.”

John paused, one abused arm halfway in its sleeve, staining the fabric far more than the floor had done. “Until what?” he asked, wary.

Sherlock was already by the door, looking about for options. “Until Detective Inspector Lestrade and the others arrive,” he answered, barely turning to face him. He wished to give John some sense of privacy, knowing it would be a dear commodity at this point, but also needed to make certain the man was making progress on getting dressed.

John winced as he pulled the sleeve on fully and started in on the second one. “They aren’t with you?” he verified.

Sherlock shook his head. “They are at the previous crime scene. I believe it is where you were held approximately 36 hours ago.” He watched John size up the knit jumper, and the way he moved gingerly even just doing up the buttons of the shirt, and deduced likely damage to his ribs. Bruised, if not broken, but painful nonetheless.

“They moved me about more than once,” Watson confirmed.

“Twenty-one minutes,” Sherlock advised. He took hold of the jumper and helped John pull it into place. “Donovan was convinced you were moved to the basement there and insistent on wasting time breaking down that door. They will come here next.” He helped John slide his feet into the shoes, taking note of several more of the same shallow cuts, and tied them with quick efficiency.

John readied himself to stand, but paused, battered hands against the clay mattress. “Do we... Do we need to tell them everything that happened?” he asked. He swallowed heavily and Sherlock made a mental reminder to get him some fluids as soon as possible. His pallor and redness of eyes were from more than simple dehydration, but it was something they could remedy promptly before moving on to the other issues.

John was waiting for an answer, and Sherlock knew he would accept whatever was decided. It would not be pleasant, but few things were, and if he could spare his friend even the slightest bit of uncomfortability after his ordeal, he would do it.

“I will handle it,” he promised, mind already turning with the possibilities.

There must have been something in his eyes, if John could read him in his still-drugged state. “Sherlock?” he asked, unsure.

Sherlock pulled him to his feet and supported him until it looked as though he could at least stumble about on his own. “Eighteen minutes,” he reminded him.

He watched the emotions behind the reddened eyes: confusion, realisation, fear, and acceptance. John nodded and steadied himself against one of the many shelves, pointedly not looking over to where Michaels lay. “What do you need me to do?”

“Head towards the exit; I will be right behind you,” Sherlock ordered. John would be slow going and the warehouse was quite large. Factor in the stairs and the uneven pavement, and Sherlock should catch up to him before he reached the door.

John did as told, only bothering to look back to say, “There were two of them, working together. I don’t know where the second one is.”

“You needn’t worry about Jeremiah,” Sherlock assured him. He thought of the dock worker disposed of in a handy corner near the exit and hoped Watson would not happen across the body during his escape.

John took him at his word and simply nodded once more. The doctor took a shuffling step and would have fallen down the rickety metal staircase had he not caught himself on the rusted banister.

Sherlock bit back any of his cautionary exclamations and reassessed just how great of a toll had been placed upon his friend thus far. He was at his side in a moment, arm around his waist and John’s own arm slung up and over his shoulder, as he helped him down to the ground level in all its decrepit glory. He noticed the withheld gasps and the slightly extra give where his arm brushed against John’s ribcage as he righted him and let him gather his breath against another bit of shelving.

“Can you make it from here?” Sherlock asked, thinking of all he had left to do and the dwindling time left to do it in. “No, never mind,” he stopped both that line of thought and his friend’s lurch to the side. “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” John replied with only the barest hesitation.

“Stay here,” Sherlock directed, pushing him slightly out of sight of the main corridor. There was an overturned palette that could serve as a bench and he oriented Watson in that direction. “And I will be with you again momentarily,” he promised, assuming the extra reassurance was needed.

“See you in a few, then,” John replied as if he were only stepping out for groceries.

Sherlock spared a few precious seconds to watch him settle upon the palette, the way he held on to shelving for support and favoured his leg in a far more than psychosomatic way reiterating exactly why the would be detective was about to do what he was about to do.

With a final glance, he bounded back up the stairs, taking them two at a time as he finalised his plans. Certain he was out of earshot, he pulled out his mobile and swallowed heavily in distaste at what he was about to do. He dialled the number from memory and spoke as soon as it was answered, simply stating, “Mycroft, I need your help.”

“You found him then?” his brother asked. He did not even mock the request or lord it over him as he usually would, which was something Sherlock was both grateful and wary of.

He detailed what he needed and where and knew his brother would have it seen to, as well as any traces of either Holmes’ involvement thoroughly erased. A glance at his watch verified approximately twelve minutes remained, and he sized up the varying options with a critical eye. “Make it good,” was all Mycroft had requested, and he was determined to do just that.

Liberal application of industrial chemicals later, Sherlock stood over the unconscious body of Michaels, the bottle of recently discovered ether in his gloved hands and the small packet of varying pharmaceuticals and syringes tucked into his coat pocket. Those he would verify the identity of later, as well as determine which if any were used against John and hopefully counteract any effects and avoid the pain of withdrawal or other damage.

He poured a fair amount of the ether onto the collar of the shirt Michaels wore and watched the rapid breathing of one returning to consciousness turn deep and slow once more. He forced a lax hand around the open amber glass bottle and placed it in a carefully created puddle beside the kidnapper. He walked along the path of solvent he had created until he reached the staircase. Two steps down and he thumbed the lighter he had taken from Jeremiah’s pocket, lighting the cigarette he had stolen from Michaels’ pack and resisting the urge to take another for himself. He did take a single drag from it though, and not just for appearances’ sake. One well-aimed toss later and the embers hit the edge of the pool, soon to be racing along the path to Michaels’ time bomb.

He darted down the stairs and over to where John awaited him. “Six minutes,” he advised, offering a hand to help him stand. There was a muted explosion from above and behind and he amended, “Possibly five.”

John looked as though he wished to ask what he had done, but shook himself out of it. “Let’s go,” he said instead, groaning as he was tugged forward.

Sherlock half-dragged and half-carried John towards the main entrance, the fumes from the flames beginning to waft about their hurried forms. He could feel the growing heat and hear the wooden pallets snap as well as other minor chemical deposits explode as the crack of door loomed closer. He shouldered it open and spared a brief glance behind him to insure the worst of evidence was consumed, tossing the lighter into the dark next to Jeremiah, less than accidentally knocking over another small can of solvent in the process.

He helped John down off the docking platform and onto the sticky and stained tarmac, looking up to see the red and blue lights racing their way. One car screeched to a halt just as the building behind them succumbed to the chemicals and flames, windows blowing outward and sending shards of metal and glass showering down around them.

Lestrade instinctively ducked as he opened the door and ushered them behind the vehicle for safety. “Are you two all right?” he shouted over the roar and din.

John clutched at his ribs, face a picture of exhaustion and pain as his bloodied fingers dug into the wool of his jumper. He darted a look at Sherlock who replied as flippantly as possible, “As well as can be expected.”

“The kidnappers?” Lestrade asked, though his expression showed he knew the likely reply.

“At least one was inside, though I believe I knocked him unconscious in my attempts to secure Doctor Watson,” Sherlock answered honestly. He made a show of looking to the blaze with a wince and added, “I would not recommend a rescue attempt at this time. The solvents stored within are highly flammable and there is no telling when another batch will alight.”

As if to accent his words, another explosion rumbled in the background, a new hue of smoke billowing out against the streetlights. His own lungs burned and he knew John would be far worse of than himself at this point. He turned to find his friend wheezing, each inhalation punctuated with another grasp at his side.

“An ambulance is on its way,” Donovan announced as she approached. She looked to the building and then to the injured man before her gaze levelled calmly on Sherlock himself. “Bit convenient for it to blow just now,” she commented, though did not appear particularly concerned. The area was nearly abandoned and the fire so far contained to the building itself, very carefully so.

Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow, ignoring the less than subtle accusation. “The kidnappers gave us three days to meet their demands. It has now been seventy-one hours and forty-nine minutes. Perhaps their timer was set incorrectly, or perhaps we were delayed in discovering the first clue.” He ignored the fact that it was highly unlikely either of the men would have remained so close had an explosion been their means of disposing of the good Doctor Watson, just as he ignored the fact neither man had ever explicitly stated what the disposal method would be.

Lestrade appeared inclined to ignore the obvious as well, or simply had not reached that conclusion as of yet, as he said, “You two got lucky.”

“Somehow, I’m doubting luck had anything to do with it,” Donovan mumbled before she walked away to organise the arriving teams.

Sherlock was inclined to agree with her, possibly for the first time in their long acquaintance, not that he felt the need to mention said inclination to her at this moment. Instead, he watched while John was bundled off to the medics, the superficial and obvious wounds cleaned and cared for while he sat less than patiently near the back of the ambulance yet pointedly not within, a mask of oxygen fitted across his ashen face.

A glance behind the ambulance showed a familiar dark sedan. The back window rolled down just enough for him the make out his brother’s features, and the silent nod he offered, before it rolled back up to hide him from the flashing lights and hurried personnel running about every which way. A bottle of water was forced into his hand and he took a sip to clear the foul air from his throat before he handed it to an increasingly agitated Watson.

John pulled the plastic mask away with obvious distaste before he drank deeply of the offering. Perhaps too deeply as he immediately coughed, little drops of the precious liquid splattering about the blanket that had been wrapped around him. Sherlock sat down beside him and took the bottle away and pressed the mask back over the lips tinged just the faintest hint of blue.

“You might need more care than they can provide,” Sherlock whispered, certain than no one save John could hear him.

John scoffed and pulled the mask away. His voice was harsh and raw, but stronger than Sherlock would have suspected as he said, “Like your brother won’t have everything at the flat by the time we get there.” He accepted the assistance with another, smaller sip of water before he added, “I’m a doctor and you’re a genius, I’m sure between us we can figure out how to wrap a few ribs if it means not having to go to hospital.”

It wasn’t the ribs he was concerned with, but Sherlock wisely kept silent on that front. Instead, he cleared his throat and asked, “Ready?”

John put the mask down beside him and struggled to his feet, letting Sherlock take far more of his weight than either man would admit.

One of the medics protested that John was in no state to go home. He was young and obviously not accustomed to the sway of the Holmes brothers. Another older and far more grizzled looking man overruled him with a nod at Sherlock and a pointed look to a now empty bit of street where a sedan had sat mere moments before.

Lestrade himself drove them back to the flat, asking thinly veiled questions about John’s health and the state of the men who had taken him along the way. He stood in the doorway while Mrs. Hudson hustled John in and out of the rapidly cooling night air. “Are you sure he doesn’t need further attention?” he asked, leaning against the jamb.

Sherlock’s eyes darted from him to a certain vehicle with a text-addicted brunette standing leaning against it. “He will get the care he needs,” he promised, and it was not a lie.

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair before shoving both hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. “I know he wants some peace, and to be back in familiar surroundings and all that, but if he needs...”

“We will call and you can hurry him away to a proper physician’s care,” Sherlock cut him off. He knew it would not come to that. A private physician would be called to the flat before he would subject John to such a public scrutiny. He was rather surprised his brother did not already have one waiting for them, to be honest.

“I’ll check in with you both tomorrow,” Lestrade sighed. Sherlock knew a promise when he saw it. He would want answers as to the kidnapping, as well as to see for himself that John was on the road to recovery. Giving Anderson time to sift through the smouldering rubble and make a preliminary report, adding in Lestrade’s own need to verify the facts and personal hesitance to hassle an injured victim, Sherlock estimated he would not stop by until after lunch the next day.

“I look forward to your no doubt enlightening visit,” Sherlock replied. With a final nod to both the Detective Inspector and to his brother’s assistant, he closed the door behind him.

He turned to find John sitting on the staircase, looking ready to pass out then and there, waiting for him. “Mrs. Hudson is insisting on making tea,” he announced. His cheek was rested on a palm, seemingly impervious to either injury. “I believe she is threatening to add one of her infamous ‘herbals’ to it.”

Sherlock smiled despite the gravity of the recent situation. He offered John an arm and said, “Let’s get you up to bed then, right?”

“Bath first, then bed,” John corrected. He pulled himself up with the held of the arm and the banister, leaning more than a bit on both.

“Shower,” Sherlock conceded. He wrinkled his nose. “You could certainly use one.”

“See how field fresh you smell after three days in various factories with little to no hygienic supplies,” Watson mumbled and began the long climb up the staircase.

“No thank you, I shall leave that experience to you,” Sherlock replied, falling easily into their usual banter.

He helped John up the stairs and to the bath where he set the water and laid out the proper soaps without comment or complaint. John struggled with his jumper and Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, settling instead for snapping his fingers and gesturing for his friend to hobble closer. He removed the jumper and made quick work of the button down, knowing John’s fingers would be far too clumsy to handle the little disks even as he wondered why he had been foolish enough to do the whole thing up in the first place.

He reached for the vest before John and pulled it up and over his head before he could protest. John tried to cross his arms over his chest but it was too late, Sherlock had already seen the damage underneath. There were places of deep bruising and several more of the shallow cuts, one deeper than the others though it did not appear to need stitching. “You will need antibiotics to prevent further infection,” he announced, the red and angry lines already burned into his memory.

John lowered his arms, as though realising he was not about to hide anything anyway. “I can get some from the clinic if necessary,” he offered, though both knew it was likely not needed as they had passed a large parcel of goods on the way in.

Short work was made of the trousers and boxers, shoes already kicked to the side, and John quickly slipped under the water, letting the heat and steam hide the embarrassed blush blooming beneath the dirt and stubble. Sherlock looked to the ruined fabric and offered, “Would you like these repaired, or burned?”

A bark of a laugh emanated from behind the curtain and a waterlogged Watson peeked out. “Burning is fine, though I wish to be there if possible to know they are well and truly gone.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to tell him the memories would not fade with the flames, but assumed an Army doctor already suffering from PTSD likely already suspected as much. “Do you need further assistance?” he asked as John darted back under the water.

“I have been bathing by myself for quite some time,” John called back. “Though, should I fall on my arse, you are welcome to tell me ‘I told you so’ as much as you desire,” he added with a gurgle.

“I will hold you to that,” Sherlock replied. He knew John would likely be a while and decided to make use of the time. “I’ll go see how that tea is coming along and make certain Mrs. Hudson does not inadvertently poison us,” he said, though found himself reluctant to leave John alone, even in the safety of their flat.

“And rifle through what your brother sent at the same time,” the doctor guessed. “I will need those antibiotics and some ice at the very least, though some paracetemol would not go remiss.”

Sherlock nodded even though John could not see him, and took his leave. He shrugged out of his own filthy coat and shoes, resigning himself to an undoubtedly cold shower some time later to get the worst of it off his own skin.

Looking through the parcel left for them, he separated out the supplies into what was needed, what may be needed, and what he hoped could be avoided. He had to admit his brother chose well, going so far has providing a small oxygen tank and cannula with a note attached that it was to be used for John’s lungs and not Sherlock’s experiments.

Mrs. Hudson arrived with the tray of tea and small sandwiches that looked edible. He reassured her that John was fine, that he would be fine, and then added several drops from one of the bottles his brother had provided to John’s teacup as soon as she turned her back. Nothing major, just something to aid in the much needed sleep that would undoubtedly be elusive for some time, despite its necessity.

He heard the water shut off and brought what he deemed to be the most necessary of the supplies to John’s room, Mrs. Hudson following with the tray of tea. She set it down on a small side table and took her leave after making Sherlock promise to take care of John right and proper. It was an easy promise to make.

He heard cursing and stumbling coming from the direction of the shower and arrived to find a determinedly moist flatmate wrapping a towel about his waist, streaks of water along the floor giving evidence to several near misses. He did not bother to give John his dressing gown knowing it would only need to be removed again to allow for treatment and would serve as a barrier to the aid as much as a symbol of the doctor’s innate stubbornness. “Ready?” he asked after helping him to the edge of the bed.

“Not that I have much say in this but, yes,” John agreed as he held out one damaged arm.

Sherlock paused as he reached for the supplies and turned to make certain he had John’s full attention as he said, “You will always have a say.” He waited for the scarred shoulders to relax nearly imperceptibly before he added with a smirk, “It is just a matter of how much that say is heeded.”

John flashed him the barest hint of a grin, and Sherlock decided it was a step in the right direction.

He picked up the antiseptic in one hand and the mug of tea in the other. John dutifully took the warm liquid and even managed a small sip without spilling it. He looked up, surprised, and commented, “It’s not awful.”

“Mrs. Hudson always makes an impeccable cup of tea,” Sherlock agreed. He pressed one gauze pad against a vivid red mark, his other hand automatically coming up to catch the arm before it could flinch away. “So long as she is not in the midst of her herbals, of course.”

John paused with the mug halfway back to his lips. “She did not add anything to this, did she?” he asked warily.

“She made only chamomile tea and a light supper, if you are up to it,” Sherlock assured him. It was not a lie; Mrs. Hudson had not added a thing.

John licked his chapped lips and eyed the little sandwiches. “I could eat,” he admitted. “Possibly more than I should.”

Sherlock thought of the counter-productivity too much sustenance would have on John’s already taxed system and bade, “Please show restraint.”

This time, the curve of his lips was obvious, and there was no attempt to hide it. “I shall endeavour to do my best,” he promised. The mug was set to the side and a sandwich set into his eager hand. He nibbled at it somewhat gingerly while Sherlock returned to his ministrations.

Sherlock examined every cut, every scrape, and every bruise carefully. He thought of bacteria and infection and whether the kidnappers’ own blood had mingled as he was certain John did not go down quietly. He thought of embers and glass and metal shards and whether John was up to date on his tetanus or if that should be added to the growing list of his concerns. He thought of all the other types of blood poisoning and whether the drugs pumped into John would increase his susceptibility and make him fall victim to something long after the initial terror was gone. He thought he needed to steady his hands before John noticed and commented that he was not just looking for the next injury to treat.

He cleaned what debris the shower had missed, cleansed each area with antiseptic and soothed on antibiotic cream before he wrapped any open wound in crisp white gauze. Every bit of damage told a story, provided evidence for the brutality his friend had endured. Every bit of evidence further justified his insurance the creators of such brutality were not allowed such opportunities ever again.

He finished with the hands and arms and torso and back and had carefully wrapped a supporting bandage around John’s ribcage when he looked pointedly at the towel around the other man’s waist.

“No,” was all John would say. He lowered the ice pack he had been holding to his cheek and set it aside before he took a large swallow of his now tepid tea and Sherlock calculated that he had approximately eighteen and a half minutes before John was too drowsy to make any further healing attempts productive.

“If you have injuries, they need to be treated,” Sherlock reasoned.

“And I can do it my own damned self,” John countered. The increase of adrenaline from his protests likely added an additional four and a half minutes before the effects of the tea fully took hold.

Sherlock huffed out a breath, belatedly realising he was mimicking John’s own actions. “You have a visible gash on your thigh and I have already seen several other incidental injuries when I assisted undressing you for your shower. Protesting now is counterproductive. I am not here to judge or embarrass or any such thing. I am here to care for you and treat your wounds else you end up in hospital with the need for far more explanations than I will ever trouble you to request.”

The faint hint of red beneath the stubble faded slightly as John muttered, “Because you don’t need to request; you’ve worked it all out on your own.” He pulled the towel back to expose the injury to his thigh though, pointedly looking everywhere save Sherlock or the angry tear of skin.

Sherlock took that as the capitulation it was and quickly and efficiently treated the wound. He knew there were others, but he also knew they were minor enough to let go at this point, despite his personal wishes in regards to the matter. He wanted to ask about other, deeper wounds of psychological sort, but resisted in respect to John’s state of mind. There would be time enough for that later, possibly over something far stronger than tea.

John’s yawn drew him out of those thoughts and back to the exhausted man before him. He helped him into a set of worn and comfortable pyjamas, pausing only to apply a bandage atop a small abrasion near the left ankle that had reopened with the movement. John downed the antibiotic tablets with the last of the tea and warily asked, “How do I know you did not just drug me?”

“The pills came from a sealed prescription packet,” Sherlock chided as he helped him lay back and tucked a blanket around him. “You know I would be far more creative than that.”

John conceded the point with a sigh. That sigh soon turned to deep, even if slightly rough, breathing as he drifted off to hopefully untroubled sleep. Sherlock watched him for a while, taking his time to clean up the mess he had made until he could no longer justify sitting in a chair at the side of the bed of a sleeping man when there were still tasks to be done.

He paused again at the doorway, simply to verify that the oxygen was not needed and not at all to assuage his own worry, before carefully tucking the remaining supplies into the appropriate places. He took his expectedly cool shower and scrubbed his skin near raw as he fought the urge to track down any acquaintances Jeremiah and Michaels may have had and to make certain they were taken care of, whether they had anything to do with this particular incident or not. It would be unproductive, especially considering there was a fair chance his brother had already seen to it on his behalf.

He added his own filthy clothing to the pile to be burnt and put on his own set of pyjamas. He entered his bedroom to find a small tumbler of amber liquid on the bedside table, the glass artfully etched with Mycroft’s monogram. He glanced out the window to find the sedan still there, his brother’s assistant now replaced with one of the burly men who pretended to serve as his muscle though such force was rarely needed.

The ice had long since melted, and he knew there was a fair chance it was drugged, but he tipped it back anyway and let the burn soothe his throat. He lay down and tugged up his comforter, shivering from the cold water and something even he did not wish to identify at this time as it would admit emotions held sway in his life.

He let his eyes drift shut and closed his fist around the slip of paper that had been left beneath the tumbler, ink smeared from the condensation but readable nonetheless. He had already memorised the message in its simplicity, and let it become a mantra to soothe him to sleep: “He’s home.”


End file.
